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Jun. 29th, 2008 | 08:41 pm
location: Snowed in
mood: productive
music: Silence


Title:  Nobodys Fault But Mine
Author:  Lady M
Characters:  John, Dean (8), Sam (4).
Scenario:  wee!chesters, John spanks Dean.
Implement:  Hand.
Summary:  Minx’s Summer Challenge 2008 Prompt #8 Shotgun, Temper, Broken
Rating:  PG-13 for spanking.
Warning:  Parental spanking of minors.  Please don't read if it offends you.
Disclaimer:  Eric Kripke and the CW own all.  I own nothing.
Author's note:  Originally posted as Minx's challenge.  Updated own lj finally.


“Dean, I warned you to stop kicking the back of my seat.”
“I don’t know why Sammy gets to ride shotgun. I always sit up front and ride shotgun,” Dean whines.
“Cuzz I called it, Deeeean,” Sammy taunts.
“Did not!” Dean rebukes.
“Did toooo. Tell ‘im Daaad,” Sammy banters back.
“Boys!  If I have to stop this car nobody will be sitting,” John declares.
“See what you did?”  Dean leans forward and smacks Sammy on the top of his brown, bushy locks.
“Dean, stop hitting your brother.  I want Sammy up front so he can practice his ABC’s,” John explains.
Sammy responds with a wide grin toward his Daddy.
“I always help Sammy with his ABC’s,” Dean mumbles.
“Dean, I won’t tell you again….DEAN?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean concedes grudgingly.
Silence hangs over the Impala interior.
“You din’t hav’ta give me a spank’in,” Dean grumbles loud enough for his father to hear in the front seat.
“Young man, you threw a temper tantrum in the middle of the diner when the waitress said they didn’t have any cake.  And Dean, you know that wasn’t a real spanking. I gave your bottom a couple of swats.”
“Alright, three.  If that had been a real spanking you wouldn’t be sitting so comfortably right now.” John looks in the rearview mirror at his belligerent oldest son. “I want you to lie down and take a nap.”
“I’m not tired,” Dean emphasizes each word.
“You’re tired and you’re cranky,” John stresses.
“Am not!”
John’s patience wears thin with his eldest.  While watching the road before him, he reaches over the back of the front seat with his right arm.  He grabs Dean’s ankle in mid-kick.
“This is your last warning, mister.  If I have to stop this car, you’ll see what a real spanking is,” John issues his ultimatum. 
Sammy can’t resist.  He pops his head high enough over the front seat.  He mockingly sticks his tongue out at his reprimanded brother.
Dean’s temper flares.  He struggles to get loose from his father’s grip.  He kicks his father’s arm with his free foot.  He kicks at the back of the seat. 
John releases Dean’s ankle from his firm grip.  He steers the Impala onto the shoulder of the deserted road.  He turns the key to stop the engine.  John takes a deep calming breath.  He reaches to open his door and leans back towards Sammy to instruct, “Stay put.”
John steps out of the Chevy.

Dean watches with wide eyes as his father strides with determination to the back passenger side door.  Dean scrambles towards the opposite side of the backseat away from his father.
John opens the back door.  He grabs his struggling child by the back of his collar.  He slides Dean on his butt across the leather seat towards the open door.

Dean’s behind reaches the edge of the seat.

John wraps his muscular arm around the child’s small waist.  He lifts Dean off of the backseat and out of the Impala.
John steps towards the rear of the car.  He spins the struggling Dean around and forcibly plants his butt on the trunk of the automobile.  On the Impala surface, John rests a palm on each side of Dean’s hips.  He pins Dean in place between his outstretched arms.  John takes a step back, away from the car.  He leans forward at the waist, bringing his face eye level with his scowling child. 

 “Do you want to tell me what’s got you in such an ornery state?” John questions.
Dean crosses his arms over his chest.  His eyes squint.  His face scrunches.  His lips purse together.
“No more chances, kiddo.  Either you come clean right now or you’re taking a trip over my knee,” John warns for the last time.
Dean shakes his head adamantly, no.  Arms still crossed.
John plants his left foot on the rear back bumper of the Impala.  He swiftly lifts Dean off the trunk hood.  He bends him over his raised knee.

Neither Dean’s feet nor his hands touch the ground.

John administers six firm swats to Dean’s small backside.  “Dean, do you have anything you want to tell me?” John asks firmly.
“I know how to loosen that stubborn tongue of yours,” John states with determination.  He reaches under Dean.  He unbuttons and unzips his son’s jeans.

Dean squirms to resist but John is quick to hold him in place with his left arm.
John firmly grips the waistbands of the boy’s jeans and briefs.  He tugs both down over the pinkened buttocks.  John plants six loud smacks on Dean’s exposed bottom.  He glances over his left shoulder to evaluate Dean’s reaction.  The kid hasn’t made a sound.
Dean clenches his fists. Tears roll down his cheeks to dampen the gravel below.
“Ready to share, kiddo?” John prompts sternly.
Dean scrambles to get off his father’s thigh.
John pulls Dean in tight to his side.  He plasters a barrage of stinging swats to the rose-colored bare backside draped over his knee.

Dean gasps for air.  He sobs loudly.

John continues the open handed smacks to the kid’s tender hindquarters.  He knows his son is on the edge, but the kid has a mean temper and a tough stubborn streak.
“You broke your promise,” Dean blubbers finally through his crying.
“What promise?” John stops the spanking to lean in to hear his child.
“You promised I could,” Dean gasps and hiccups, “have cake on my birthday.”
“I did promise you could have cake on your birthday,” John agrees.
“I din’t get cake.  I got a broken promise,” Dean sobs uncontrollably.
“Aw, baby,” John lifts Dean off his knee and pulls him to his chest.
Dean pushes away with both arms, rejecting his father’s comfort.
“Dean, stop.  When is your birthday?”
“You forgot!”  Dean struggles to get free.
“Dean, settle down and answer my question.  When is your birthday?”
“January 24th,” Dean mumbles.
“Right.  What’s today?”
“January 24th,” Dean states angrily.
“No, Dean. Today is January 23rd.  Tomorrow’s your birthday, kiddo,” John explains sympathetically.
Dean stops struggling to get away from his father’s grasp.  His body stills as he contemplates the new information.
“That’s right, Dean, tomorrow is your birthday,” John emphasizes the word tomorrow.
Dean looks up at his father as his eyes fill with water and tears roll down his cheeks.
“Come here, baby,” John pulls Dean into a warm, comforting hug.  Dean doesn’t resist.  He cries deeply into his father’s chest.  The anxiety and hurt of the afternoon washes away with the warmth and security of his father’s tight grasp.
“Let it out, kiddo.  It’s okay.  I got you,” John comforts.
Dean snuggles in closer to his father.

John rubs his distressed son’s back.  He holds Dean as close and tight as he can.  He supports Dean’s head with his open palm, holding the youngster firmly to his shoulder.  John keeps his other arm wrapped around his son’s waist.   
Dean’s crying quiets.  He hiccups.  He takes a deep soothing breath and releases a loud sigh.
“You feel better now?”  John inquires softly.
Dean nods his head yes, against his father’s shoulder. He lifts his head to look into his father’s loving eyes.  “You din’t break your promise.”
“No, Dean.  No broken promise.  We’ll have cake tomorrow.  If I tell you a secret, will you promise not to tell Sammy?”
Dean looks up at his father with red eyes and wet lashes.  He nods yes.
“Sammy sat up front so he could color you a special birthday picture while you took a nap in the back.”
“He did?  I won’t tell,” Dean grins widely.
“Okay, you ready to get this show back on the road?”
Dean wraps both arms around his father’s neck for a meaningful embrace.

Rubbing Dean’s back, John carries him to the back door of the Impala.  John notices Dean’s drooping eyes as he lifts him off his shoulder.  “You ready for that nap now, birthday boy?”
Dean’s head bobs yes, already half asleep.  The spanking and the release of his built up anxiety and frustration wore out the already fatigued child.  Dean’s body is limp with sleep as John carefully places him on his stomach across the backseat.  He tucks the threadbare army blanket from the Impala’s floor around the unconscious form.  Deep breath’s being the only sign of life.
“Dean ‘kay, Daddy?”  Sammy whispers.
“Your brother’s fine.  He’s taking a nap.”
John closes the Impala door as quietly as possible.  He strides around to the driver’s side of the Chevy.  He slides in behind the steering wheel.  As he turns the key, he looks over at his youngest son who grins proudly at his Daddy.  His crayons and paper positioned in his lap.
John looks in the rearview mirror at his oldest, sound asleep.  He swells with pride and accomplishment.  Another childhood trauma averted.  That is, as long as tomorrow he picks a diner that has cake on the menu.   

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